


All's Fair in Love and War

by misanthropyray



Series: Hollow Hands Cling [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Domestic Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Confinement, Forced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/pseuds/misanthropyray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows; he knows there’s nowhere that he could go, nowhere that I can’t find him and bring him home to me.</p><p>(A sequel to The Persistent Silence and the Outstretched Arms)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Contains pretty much everything that could be triggery. If you're of a delicate disposition, please continue to an area of the internet which contains amusing cat videos or the like.  
> Beta-ed by thisprettywren who is amazing and way too invested in this for her own good.

"I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. 

I was dispicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything,

mais je t'aimais, je t'aimais."

\- Lolita, Vladamir Nabakov

 

In the taxi, John looks impossibly small. His body is pressed tight against the door, thumb insistently scratching at a safety label. He is fastidiously avoiding my gaze, but that doesn’t stop me looking and I can’t take my eyes off him. His decision had been a slow one; a lesser person might have been offended at his reluctance to return to his home and my faithful companionship.

His hair has begun to segment slightly, it must have been almost 2 days since he last showered. Usually I would be pleased; he’d smell better that way. Not like shampoo or face wash or soap, but like sweat and dirt, like London. Like John. _John_

But he doesn’t smell like John now. Not properly. He smells like institution. He smells like the legal system. When we get home, that’ll be the first little problem that needs rectifying. The first of many. There’s a tingle that spreads from my fingertips across my palms as I imagine John in the bath, sitting quietly as I wash him. The water would be so hot it would fill the room with steam, the tiny capillaries of his skin would blossom with vasodilatation. I would rid him of the outside world, clean away the jail cell and our separation so they left no trace on him and we could start again.

From the beginning.

Things would be different this time. Things would be so much better. Lessons have been learned and this time it would be perfect.

He’s pulled the sticker off the door now, folding and refolding it, the plasticised backing springing it back into shape each time. He’s not really looking at the sticker, he’s looking through it and it’s simply in the way. There are dark circles under his eyes almost like bruises. I want to kiss them, brush my lips across them and taste them.

“Why?”

It’s the first thing that he’s said since we left the station and it’s strangely jarring in the relative silence. I was rather enjoying the silence. He looks up at me as though snapping back into the cab from wherever his mind had taken him. His eyes look into mine for answers.

“I can’t live without you John. You know that, I’ve always told you that.”

John goes back to staring at the curled label in his hands. The woman on the label is stepping out of the taxi door and into moving traffic. She’s partially covered by a thick red line, almost cruelly striking her out. Maybe she just needed to leave in a hurry.

When the taxi stops outside 221, John yanks on the handle and launches himself out of the car. I almost think he’s going to try and run. I’d almost be proud of him if he did. I walk away from the cab without my change, don’t look at John, let him make his own decision. He knows; he knows there’s nowhere that he could go, nowhere thatI can’t find him and bring him home to me. I’d travel to the ends of the earth for him, I wouldn’t stop looking for him until I could no longer walk, until my brain collapsed in on itself and my lungs refused to pull in air. He knows.

I unlock the door and he’s behind me, heavy of foot and breath.

There’s a jolt of excitement as my key turns in the lock, anticipation throbbing through me. I step aside for him, a testing hand on his lower back, quietly asserting my presence and bringing him inside, bringing him home. _I’m here, John. I’ll always be here._ His skin almost ripples at the contact; he still wants to run. He wants to turn and take my wrist, crush it in his strong hand and twist my arm against my back, forcing me hard against the door frame. His shoulder would push against me, pressing my sternum painfully into the hard angle of the wood and he would breathe against my neck and it would make my hair ruffle as it moves across my skin. He would consider snapping the comparatively fragile bones in his grip before dropping it and walking out the door. He wants to but his soldier’s pride won’t let him. He crosses the threshold and I lock the door. There’s a satisfying slide of metal on metal as the outside world disappears behind us.

I keep my eyes on him as he contemplates the hallway for a moment, my hands behind my back almost fumbling as I connect the lock. I should have practised this beforehand. It was simple customising an electromagnetic lock; a few bits of coiled wire and iron hooked up to a power source with an encoded remote control, then embedding a metal plate into the door supports, GCSE grade material really. But knowing its purpose, testing currents and exerting a variety of forces, had made it a project that kept me entertained for most of a day. Really quite engaging.

There is a momentary hum of electricity as the connection is made, but John doesn’t appear to notice. The house is silent, save for the cars on the road outside and the creaking complaints of the stairs as John climbs up them, determined and steady. I watch him as he opens the front door, taking in every twitch of muscle and every darting glance. He arrives at home expecting familiarity and not entirely finding it. A poor facsimile of his memory, the subtle changes of which will become clearer in time.

He’s moved over to his chair and is staring into the middle distance. Evidently he does not intend to be forthcoming with the conversation. No matter. We have the time for him to sulk as long as he sees fit. Time is, most assuredly, on my side.

* * *

John’s been reading the paper for three hours. It’s two days old, but I suppose that doesn’t matter when you’ve been sitting in a prison cell. He has started at the beginning again seven times and hasn’t said a word. He’s snorted air from his nostrils twelve times in feigned amusement. He’s not really reading anymore. He hasn’t been for the last 142 minutes. But he’s also resolved himself to silence and seems to have decided that staring at the newspaper is a better use of his time than engaging my company. I’m almost enjoying this game; establishing the beginning dynamics before proceeding with the war of attrition to follow.

John will want to go to bed soon. He’s just been in his chair all evening, assuming, not establishing the new rules. He hasn’t noticed the lock on the front door or the lack of his personal effects in the living room. He’s barely noticed me. Tonight will be the beginning.

* * *

He gets up from his armchair, using the palm of his hand to try and rub the stiffness out of his leg. There is a dramatic yawn and a pointed lack of eye contact. He slowly, painfully slowly, climbs the stairs to his room. Each step creaks as he limps onto it awkwardly. I’m waiting. He always used to say I had no patience and he’s not even paying attention now.

There’s silence as he reaches the top, tries his bedroom door and finds it locked. I imagine the frown and the tongue that darts out across his lips and the pause before trying the handle again. The steps begin creaking as he descends.

“My room. It’s locked.” He’s leaning heavily against the door frame.

“Feel free to use my room.”

“Sherlock, I’m not a prisoner here.” There’s a waver of uncertainty in his voice and I suppress a smile through it.

“I believe your freedom is on my terms. Though I can return you to the Yard if you prefer. I’m sure they’ll free up a cell for you with a little notice.”

After a moment of silence, he limps over to the sofa. He folds himself in, lying with his forehead pressed against the back of the sofa. The curved lines of his back taunt me. I had supposed he wouldn’t return to my bed immediately but that didn’t stop me hoping. I can imagine myself pressed up against him, my chin in his hair, chest against his back and legs entwined. My hand would snake over his hip and dip under his clothing. I would run my hands over the skin of his stomach and rest my palm to feel the beat of his heart. I would pull myself tight against him and his body would be surrounded by mine. I would kiss the back of his head and we would fall asleep together.

He won’t be able to sleep on the sofa forever. It holds his shoulder in a way that will exacerbate the occasional muscle contractions he experiences and his leg will put up a fight at staying in a foetal position all night. Time.

* * *

He seems more resolute in the morning.

He ignores the breakfast I’ve laid out on the table for him. Doesn’t even comment on the fact that I’m making an effort to look after him now. He walks past the kitchen entirely and heads for the front door. He pauses for a beat as the latch seems useless, stays frozen with one hand on the turned latch and the other on the door handle. I watch him from the top of the stairs.

“Have you changed the lock?” He’s still not looking at me.

“No.”

“Has Mrs Hudson changed the lock?” He thinks I’m being pedantic. He thinks I’m toying with him and I suppose I am but this game is far beyond pedantry. I approach him. I’m not wearing shoes and he seems startled when he hears my reply from behind him. If I’m being accused of it though, I suppose I can indulge myself a little.

“Step aside, John.”

He doesn’t understand but does so anyway. Stepping back more than he has to, to keep me out of his personal space. I’m going to fix the distance between us. It’ll be resolved soon, but now is not the moment for resolutions. I push the lock remote in my pocket and turn the key. The door opens and John is trying to cover his confusion. Having the door ajar makes me nervous. It’s a whimsy and it’s too close to the outside world for comfort. John could run and leave me again. I’d probably manage to find him almost immediately within the perimeter around Baker Street but there’s a chance he could be missing for up to a few days. Maybe weeks. I lock the door again, reconnecting the circuit and exhaling more than natural breathing necessarily required.

I walk back up the kitchen as John tries the lock again and fails to open the door. I very much doubt there is anyone in the world more amusing than John Watson. He doesn’t see my smile, takes no notice of the fondness which I’m sure he would be able to see in my eyes if he would only look at me. He tries the door a few more times.

When he’s given up, he doesn’t ask any questions about the door. He simply sits at the table and eats the scrambled eggs that have certainly gone cold by now.

* * *

That afternoon, I leave a present for him in the living room. His laptop (around 15 minutes battery life, no charger) sits on the coffee table. There’s been some slight modifications but he probably won’t notice. Not for a while at least. I sit in my room. My laptop shows the image of his screen as soon as John powers it up. He began using a computer when his therapist told him to and he’s never really taken to it for anything other than necessity. He browses the same three websites, one of which is his email provider, with atomic reliability. I watch the cursor slowly track across the screen, opening the browser with the sites already open in the tabs. The doesn’t notice the additional full stop in the address bars. Of course he doesn’t.

There’s no way for me to suppress the smile as he begins to compose an email. It’s to Harry. He’s asking for help. How sweet. No one else would be able to read the desperation that leaks through in the white spaces between his words, certainly not Harry. John is relentlessly stoic about the whole thing while still managing to pass on Lestrade’s details and asking her to contact him at the soonest possible opportunity. So he’s noticed that he doesn’t have a phone anymore, interesting.

If he tries to look at anything outside his usual browsing practises, he’ll realise. He’ll realise that he’s not in the internet at all. That everything he’s been looking at is a mirror, gathering his information and transmitting it directly to my laptop. I estimate it’ll be at least 3 days before that occurs though. For the moment, he’s safely contained in his own virtual microcosm. _Safe._

When he’s typing the last few sentences, his laptop announces its dying battery. He rushes to send it before his screen goes blank. The remote view window blinks closed and I look over his email that’s arrived in my inbox. His words so desperate and yet so hopeful. There’s no doubt in his mind that the email will bring his salvation. So naive.

 _’I need you, Harry.’_ Well, that’s quite simply not good enough.

* * *

A few days later, a line is crossed.

As his laptop battery counts down, John begins to compose a new email. This time, he types Mycroft’s public access email in the address bar. There’s a lurch of anger in the pit of my stomach that manifests as pain. I’m curling over the laptop, hugging the psychosomatic spasms and staring at the words appearing on the screen, the letters of betrayal in black and white sans serif.

_`He’s gone too far this time. Please help...`_

The fact the email will never reach Mycroft is irrelevant. John has been foolish to appeal to him and he needs to know that his actions result in consequences. Obviously provisions have been made for this but I’m disappointed nonetheless. Maybe I’d been the foolish one, thinking that I could force him back into the relationship we used to have, make him love me again just like he used to. The decision to alter my approach eases the wrenching in my gut slightly. The remote screen turns black and I stare at the email, running my fingers across the screen, trying to press the words out of existence and leaving ripples across the pixels of the screen in their wake.

* * *

He’s eating the soup.

He hasn’t said thank you. He hasn’t said a word in the last three days, beyond strangled shouts during his sleep. John doesn’t appreciate my looking after him, my making an effort to tend his needs. Was I like this? Probably not. No evidence, better not to hypothesise.

The spices are visible on his skin, his complexion sanguine (in the old sense; but then, what's older than this?). It’s hotter than he would choose for himself but he still doesn’t comment. I’m sitting on the opposing armchair watching him. His nose is running slightly. His socked feet are aggressively grinding along the rough patch in the carpet beside the sofa. He’s resolutely staring at his spoon although there’s an occasional flicker towards me so I knew he’s keeping me in his peripheries. I don’t want to be in the peripheries anymore.

John hasn’t noticed the sedative.

When he’s finished, he rests the bowl on top of the little pile of crockery that’s gathering on the coffee table and sits back. He reads a book as his head begins to slump slowly to one side. He snaps it back a few times before giving in to sleep. John looks relaxed for the first time since coming home; artificially induced sleep suits him.

When I lay him out on my bed, some of the lines have smoothed from his face. His hair has grown out and the ends are beginning to wave outwards slightly, curling around his ears and cushioning his head on the pillow. There’s no tension in his shoulders anymore. He looks handsome. My most treasured possession.

Since he’s returned home, he’s kept his distance. He moved as though I’m a repellent magnetic force, keeping an endless void between us. I’ve held back. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited for him to come round to me, fisting my hands to keep them from shamelessly reaching out for him. I’ve waited long enough.

Beginning with his hair seems like a logical enough decision, and I sit beside him on the bed and run my hands through it. The tiny strands feel strangely integral to the image of ‘John’. If I pulled it out, examined it, it would tell a story. It would show me his age, race, DNA, detail any medication he’d taken while he was away, and a whole host of information about where he’s been, based on the ambient particles still clinging to the hair. The texture is exactly as I remember, but then it’s not as though I expect surprises. The opposite, in fact. I crave familiarity. I want to match the portrait in my head to the warm body in front of me. I want to visualise every part of him and overlay the image with perfect synchronicity. Because I remember it all perfectly.

_I know you, John. I know you better than anyone else will ever know you; inside and out. Every line, every mole, every pore is committed to memory. Every scar, every mark. I have a map of you, John Watson, the perfect topographical representation of everything you are and have ever been._

I run my fingertips across his face, tracing the delicate lines across his forehead and around his eyes. There’s a new line, an anomaly, a mark of time and our separation. It runs over the procerus muscle between his eyebrows, obviously stress induced. I touch my lips to the crease, smoothing it for a moment but it folds back as I draw away. The new information is added to the map.

It’s almost not like touching John. John is strong and powerful and this feels impossibly fragile. One slip, one mistake and he could crumble to dust beneath my palms. I undress him carefully, undoing each button in turn, threading his arms out of the sleeves. Soon he'll see how I care for him. I fold the clothes neatly and stack them on the nearby chair where John will be able to see them when he wakes; see what I tried to give him.

Sitting next to him, the angle is uncomfortable. I shift to sit astride him, resting only a fraction of my weight against his hips. His chest rises and falls beneath me. An arm moves slightly. His eyelids flicker in REM sleep. Time passes. I’m held static, an impassive observer as we slowly become reacquainted. My hands itch, reminding me of their presence, urging me into action.

When we first met, his face was tanned, marked by military service and warfare. Time has passed, his skin has tanned and paled twice during the two summers since his medical discharge. It’s paler now, though it’s never really white. There are still the fading marks of sunshine dotted across the soft lines of his cheeks.

There’s time. I can examine him slowly, run my hands over the lines of his torso, trace each individual rib and run my fingers in the furrows between, closer to his heart. I can taste him, the light perspiration that clings to the hair under his arms, the salt in the dip of his throat. Moving lower, I realise I’m hard against him; too wrapped up in John to pay attention to my own body’s response to him.

His hand is slack in mine as I curl his fingers around myself. The shape of his hand envelopes me in blissful familiarity and I can’t breathe anymore as I move his fist within mine. It’s been so long since I’ve touched him, held him, embraced him. Missing him felt like a tight pain, crushing my ribs but now John has returned, the memory of the pain redoubles. How could I have survived this long without him? Why didn’t the crushing pain in my chest crack my ribcage and pierce my lungs? Why didn’t I drown without him? He can never leave again.

I fold over him, no longer able to hold myself upright, and press my face into his neck. It’s warm, it smells just how John always smells and I can feel his pulse beating strong and steady under my lips. My breath on his neck seems to quicken it fractionally. _You will never comprehend how much I have missed you._

I can’t control my hips anymore, everything is trembling and shuddering, out of control. The slightest movement of John’s head and he appears to lean into to me, gently resting his head against mine and I’m surrounded by him. It’s too much and the room is loud as I spill myself over his chest. My limbs won’t stop shaking.

John looks beautiful; unguarded and serene and marked by me. My hands find their way into his hair again.

* * *

When he wakes, the first thing he does is pull against the handcuffs. He’s still naked and his muscles ripple and flex beneath his skin. My head is resting on his shoulder and I can’t deny myself the little indulgence of leaning over to kiss the shifting flesh.

The realisation is almost immediate and he thrashes for moment, throwing my head away from him, a loud snarl of anger echoing slightly around the room. The blood throbs in the veins around his temples and his back arches away from the mattress. He has all the majesty of a caged lion, straining against his bonds. John, the predator held captive.

When he stills, he huffs a few forceful breaths from his nose before speaking. “Sherlock.” He looks at me, hoping for an explanation before he has to form the words.

“Mycroft, John. I thought I could trust you and then you tried to contact my brother. So now we have to begin again.”

As my words sink in, _’tried to’_ , he pushes his head backwards into the pillow and stares up at the ceiling.

I leave him to consider the consequences of his actions while I go to make some breakfast.

He resolutely refuses to eat the cereal. I won’t force him to, not yet.

When I return to the room with my shaving equipment and a bowl of warm water, he stills entirely, fixing me with a stare that’s a heady mix of anger, frustration and a hint of fear. He’s silent as I cover the short hair on his chin with foam. I pause before touching his skin with the razor, listening to his quickened breath and feeling the strong beat of his heart where I rest my arm. When the sharp metal makes contact with his cheek, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to draw into himself. Watching the long, smooth lines, clearing away paths in the foam is mesmerising. One finger motions to tip his head back and he complies silently. When I rest my palm against his throat, gripping lightly and pulling the skin of his neck taught, I can feel a tremor running through the core of him. He’s shaking beneath my touch, trembling in my care as I clean him, look after him. I want to lick the smooth skin that lies in the wake of the razor. I wait. _Look how patient I am now, John. Are you proud of me?_

* * *

“We’re going to do this slowly.” His eyes have been closed but as I speak they flash open and find me.

“Sherlock, please just unlock the cuffs. This is ridiculous, you can’t do this.”

“Evidence would suggest otherwise, John.” He looks powerful laid out on the bed, his chest taking in wide breaths and his arms muscular and straining. He looks as though he could snap the metal that binds him and turn it to dust, like he’s only remaining there to obey me, to prove that he can be trusted and be mine again. I run my fingers through the soft hair covering his left shin.

“Well, can I at least have some clothes?” He shifts his thighs, moving his legs at an awkward angle in some vague insinuation of covering himself. Nudity was not something that embarrassed John, the military has taught him well in that regard, but vulnerability was. The feeling of exposure, a total openness to outside scrutiny, was something that did not sit well with him.

“I hope you can, John.” It isn’t even a lie; I hope he’ll earn his clothing back soon. It will mean progress has been made. “I’m even willing to forget about your little transgression with breakfast, if you’re more cooperative from now on.”

“I suppose I don’t have any choice.”

“You’ve already made your choice.”

John rocks his head to the side, signalling the end of the conversation. He repositions his shoulder by rippling his spine against the mattress, incidentally shifting his flaccid penis against his leg. Every twitch, every flex holds my attention. John is a locked room murder crime scene with no clues and no motive. I can’t look away. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

With a pillow propping up his head, he accepts the sandwich and water that I bring him for lunch. He even says thank you afterwards, quietly like he doesn’t want anyone to over hear him. When he looks at me, there’s a sadness in his eyes, like he always knew that this is what would happen, an inevitable part of our relationship. He knows that I’ve always needed him more than he needs me, that was clear from the start. That unevenness has effected everything, has seeped through into every moment since our first kiss when he was came home from the pub and fell into me on the sofa, pressing our mouths together more by accident than design. For John there could always be others. To me, he is everything, I can’t let him go.

He calls to me when he needs the toilet. I pick up an Erlenmeyer flask and return to the bedroom where John resolutely avoids my gaze. I ease his penis into the neck of the container and tell him about the experiment on separating proteins that I’m working on in the kitchen. He stares at the wall though I do think he’s listening. He’s bored; he’ll indulge his need for human interaction soon enough.

The flask warms my hands before I tip its contents down the sink.

* * *

The sound of the phone beeping and vibrating against the counter is strangely mechanical in the quiet of the flat. Without John turning on the television or radio, there hasn’t been any digital noise in days.

For a moment, it’s nothing but an intrusion, an intruder into the private world that I’ve crafted for John and I. I read the message anyway, for curiosity’s sake. It’s Mycroft. An interpreter has reported a kidnapping. He claims he’s too busy to look into it himself, though we both know it’s far more to do with apathy than enterprise. He wastes less time being dismissive than usual, presumably due to the time constraints involved. I text back to get more details, remaining uncommitted pending further information. The details turn out to be curious enough to spark my interest and I fetch my coat.

It takes me two days to find the hostage, bound in an attic in West Norwood, although the captors manage to flee to Greece. Why Mycroft doesn’t pay closer attention to the outbound traffic of the country is beyond me. He thanks me with dinner as his gentleman’s club in Mayfair afterwards. Genuine thanks clearly isn’t the only thing on the menu this evening. We have a private dining room which looks out onto the extravagant staircase of the tall, narrow building.

“You should really be more careful, Sherlock.”

“I’m sure I have no clue what you might be referring to.” Mycroft’s fork is toying with the medallion of duck fois gras on his plate.

“Do you have any idea how much research goes in to finding an assistant for you? And this is how you treat him? After what happened to my last acquisition, I had hoped you might err on the side of caution.”

He looks disappointed in me. Rather ironic, coming from him; it wasn’t I, after all, who arranged for John to be shot.

“The situation is under control.” That isn’t a lie. John had seemed much more receptive of late; he’ll make progress soon, I’m sure of it. Then I could unlock him. Eventually he would let me back in completely and run by my side again, London would be ours once more. Thinking about that day drives a sharp spike of hope through my chest.

“I’ll permit you the two months we agreed upon, but no more, Sherlock. After that, you may expect my intervention.”

“Two months is all I need.”

* * *

When I arrive back on Baker Street, I can hear the shouting before I’ve opened the front door. John’s calls for Mrs Hudson grow louder as I climb the stairs, reverberating around the lounge. The noise stops abruptly when the front door closes. I fetch a glass of water before entering the bedroom. When he sees me, his face is awash with genuine relief. He mutters, “thank god, oh, thank god,” under his breath almost inaudibly. The room smells, piss and fear still underlaid with something unmistakably _John_. I pause in the doorway while adjusting.

“She can’t hear you, you know.”

John’s eyes narrow in suspicion. His voice, when he speaks, is hoarse. “What did you do?”

I take a moment before answering, taking stock of his face: eyes reddened and dark-shadowed, lips just beginning to roughen. His cheeks are darkening, beard coming in already; an annoyance. I won’t shave him again right away. I’d scarcely had time to enjoy it the last time.

“Oh, John, don’t be stupid. She’s travelling. Her ship should be pulling into a dock in Portugal right about how. Mycroft made a few arrangements.”

I cradle his head, gently scratching my fingers across his scalp as he drinks the water, gulping it with a series of sighs and grunts. He’s compliant as I pull the soiled bedsheets out from under him, arching his back and lifting his hips out of the way.

I cover the bed in plastic sheeting which crunches loudly beneath him. He doesn’t protest when I leave again and return with a bowl of soapy water that steams by the bedside. As I wash him, he watches me, his face neutral. I begin at his feet, taking my time, cleaning between each of his toes and watching them curl as I run the sponge along his sensitive arches. His ankles are red raw from the cuffs and he hisses as I pour clean water over the metal and swab the skin with an antiseptic.

He moves his knee when I nudge at it, allowing me to clean the mess between his thighs. He looks at the wall. I tell him about the case and he listens. He lifts his hips and I clean his buttocks and genitals. I lay a chaste kiss on his knee when I’m finished.

Thai takeaway arrives; mussaman curry, John’s favourite. Mycroft must have ordered it. The powder disappears into it easily. I prop his head with pillows and feed it to him, wiping away the sauce on his chin.

He thanks me afterwards. He’s learning.

When the sedative pushes him to sleep, I clothe him. I dress the broken skin around his wrists and ankles, one by one, and his limbs rest heavily in my hands. I brush my lips over the sores before disinfecting them and bandaging. When I’m finished, I crawl into the bed beside him, my own body feeling lethargic and ready for sleep. He is warm as I press myself against him. I rest my head on John’s shoulder, burying my face in his neck, breathing his scent as I drift off to sleep.

* * *

John is still asleep when I wake up. Sitting up, I look over his sleeping form. His hair is messy and juts out at odd angles, his face is relaxed and twisted sidewards into the pillow. An erection tents his trousers.

I lean in and gently push the heel of my hand against it. His hips push up to meet my hand. It’s been days since he’s touched himself, his body has become autonomous. I shift my hand slightly and a moan escapes his lips though his eyes remain firmly closed. The sound sends shivers through me. I was going to stop, wait for John to give himself back to me but this is too much; the push of his friction-seeking hips, the heavy breaths huffed into the pillow, and the burning heat against my palm. I can’t bear it.

I pull down the waistband of the soft trousers, tugging the underwear with them and his cock lifts free of the material, standing proudly. Without the fabric pressing against against him, his hips begin a series of tiny abortive thrusts, blindly seeking stimulation. I put my lips over the head and his hips snap up into the sensation, pushing into my mouth almost aggressively.

John cries out as he wakes up. His hips still for a moment and I lower my lips down further onto him. There’s a noise that comes from somewhere low in his throat as his cock touches my soft palette and the muscles clench down around him. A few more seconds and his legs begin to tremble. I pull away from him, mouth hovering above him, and gently lap at the tip of his penis; tasting him, touching him, inviting him. He has to decide now. There’s an abrupt jolt as he snaps his hips forwards into me, my throat clamping down in complaint as it’s hit with violent force. He’s brutal and unrelenting, planting his feet against the bed as thrusts forward. John growls out a guttural noise that fills the room, almost drowning out the wet slap of his flesh inside me. I hold myself above him as he fucks my mouth, taming the bile that rises in my throat whenever he breaches my oesophagus.

I’m offering myself and he’s taking it; he’s making a choice. My eyes begin to water as his rhythm descends into a desperate series of jerks; he’s close now. He’s eyes are shut so tightly that the soft lines reach into the messy strands of his hair. I press my lips around him, hollow my cheeks and press in. His hips still as his spine arches to meet me. He comes with a loud grunt and I catch it on my tongue, holding it in my mouth as long as I can before swallowing.

So much closer.

* * *

I’m in the kitchen when he calls for me. The silence has hung in the air for almost the entire fortnight he’s been home. He calls my name and it’s different this time, almost a question, somehow softer. In the bedroom, his head is propped on a pillow and he’s looking down at the floor as I enter. I’m caught off guard by his change in tone and edge into the room with caution. He’s looking at the floor near my feet.

“So, what are you working on out there?” The question is quiet, mumbled under his breath, as though he wants to maintain plausible deniability about having ever asked it. He’s bored. He wants to talk. At last.

I feel lighter as I sit next to him on the bed, fitting my hip against the soft side of his torso. I tell him and it feels like release. The words come pouring out as though I have no control over them. I once told him that he took the place of the skull but John is so much more; the understanding in his eyes or the confused creasing of his forehead or the disapproving purse of his mouth as I speak. He’s been here in body and he’s coming back to me in spirit. I rest a hand on his chest and feel his heart.

After a pause, the words are gone, stolen by the silence. I can’t think about the experiment; streptococcus cultures don’t matter anymore. I’m leaning into him and I can’t stop myself. It’s too soon, I know it’s too soon. I stop before my lips touch his.

“Can I kiss you, John?” He’s silent but he doesn’t turn away from me. My heart is beating against my ribs so hard that I’m sure he can hear it echoing around the room, feel it through my shirt vibrating the air between us; I expect my bones to shatter. I press my lips gently against the corner of his mouth for just a moment, a split second of contact, “Please.”

He’s frozen. His eyes are looking at my mouth. Everything is still except the thunderous beating of my heart.

I move my lips to him again, touching the other side of his mouth, the briefest of moments, “Please.”

“Please.” I touch my lips against his mouth, pressing, withdrawing then pressing again, softly, barely making contact. As I’m about to pull away, there’s a twitch of movement. He returns my kiss, a tiny catch and release of my bottom lip. It’s chaste but it’s there and it’s perfect.

He frowns and turns his face away. I can’t move just yet and rest my forehead against the side of his head. I’m shaking.

I want to cling to him and I want him to cling to me. In a rush, I just want things to be how they were. I want to unlock the handcuffs and know that John won’t run, that it wouldn’t even be a consideration. I would kiss the delicate, red skin on his wrists and he would curl up into me. I would wrap my body around him, entwine with him. We would run through the streets together and I would hear his footfall behind me, backing me, guarding me. I would hear his laugh again.

I run my fingers over the hard metal and consider it. The key hangs on a hook in the kitchen. I could retrieve it and release him in under a minute but he’s not ready yet. There’s a tiny crack in the hard shell that he’s formed around himself, the wall that keeps him distanced from me, but freedom would only heal it, not split him open again.

 _Only a little further, John. I know you’ll find your way back. Come home._

* * *

He’s calling me again. It’s probably for food this time. His relentless insistence on a regular eating pattern is becoming tedious at best, though I need to know. My all encompassing knowledge of John has become thoroughly intoxicating; anything that goes in or comes out of his body, I have access to, I control. He used to say that he was mine and now he is, everything about him. My knowledge of his internal biology has increased exponentially. When he eats butter, his neck flushes slightly but no other signs of physical discomfort manifest. He sleeps approximately 40 minutes after eating 300 grams or more of any complex carbohydrate. I need to know everything; I already know him more completely than he knows himself.

But the mechanics are undeniably exhausting.

There’s bread in the cupboard. That’ll do.

He needs shaving again too. I can’t help but think there must be a way of chemically suppressing the production of follicle stimulant. He doesn’t tremble anymore as my hand pulls taught the soft skin of his throat. The blade glides over his skin and leaves pale lines in its wake.

As I’m finishing, carefully wiping the thin slivers of foam from his cheek, he does something new. (Probably not new; probably just the first time I’ve seen it. Incomplete data. I curse my inattentiveness.) His breath changes, snorting from his nostrils in laboured bursts. There’s pain, but where? His brow has furrowed, eyes closed with creased lids. Tendons in his neck rise then flatten, pulsing with his heightened nerve activity but not the source of it. The hollow in his throat is concave. His shoulder is contorted slightly. Cramp. His muscles pulling taut and twisting against the joint.

A choice presents itself.

I go to the kitchen and take the key from its hook. The key is tiny in itself but I can feel it getting heavier in my hand as I return to the bedroom. By the time I reach the bed, its weight is almost unbearable.

It slips into the lock, sliding smooth and effortlessly in sharp contrast to my shaking hands. His arm falls back onto the pillow, heavy and immobile. With both hands, I fold the arm down and onto John’s chest where he curls around it with a groan. I smooth over the skin with my palm, feel the muscle ease and release. His breathing softens.

“Thank you,” he says into the pillow, a whisper.

The words ring in my ears and the rest of the locks click open before I’ve really thought through the consequences. John drags his limbs into himself and lies foetal on his side. He looks small, fragile against the sheets. I crawl onto the bed and surround his body with mine. His thin t-shirt has rucked up, revealing an expanse of skin on his back, flushed and broken beneath me.

The bath is too warm for him. He hisses as the waterline reaches his torn skin, pulling back and then submerging with a grimace as I lower him in. He stays perfectly still while adjusting, eyes closed and body rigid with tension.

He stares at the ceiling while I wash him. I want him to look at me, I want to grab his face and make him look into my eyes, I want him to feel connected to me again. Instead I clean him slowly; every finger, every toe, every crease and plane. When I wash his hair, he closes his eyes and leans in to the touch of my fingers on his scalp. He looks beautiful. The foam runs in white lines down his back and I brush them away, touching the bumps in his spine and the soft ruts of his ribs with my palm.

He moves his arms slowly, stretching the stiffened muscle. He lifts his legs individually, tentatively flexing the joints of his knees then easing them down into the water again. When he’s finished, he lies back and closes his eyes, sinking into the darkened water. _My John._

* * *

John comes into the kitchen wearing the outfit I laid out for him; loose fitted black jeans, a white cotton t-shirt and a black, cashmere cardigan. It would be a perfect fit if his shoulders weren’t hunched over, bunching the fabric awkwardly. The clothes have been in my room. Smell like me and now they’ll smell like us both. I can’t deny feeling a slight thrill at the thought of the materials I’ve chosen moving and covering his bare skin. I can imagine the exact tactile sensation of my hands moving between the two planes, soft cotton and softer skin.

I put the kettle on. There’s no milk, so I make us both black coffee. He sits at the table, his rests his arm heavily on the tabletop, curling his fingers around the mug. His shoulders are rigid again, his whole frame held taut in preparation for battle; the soldier’s stance. We both know I’ve won, but I feel a surge of pride nonetheless. My John: never one to give in without a fight, even when the conflict is internal. He looks at me and says nothing.

“You tried to leave. I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

“Sherlock...”

“I just want to trust you, John. You said you’d never leave me but evidently that’s not true. I’m simply making provisions.”

John sighs heavily and it ripples the the liquid in his hands. He looks down into the coffee and it reflects the image of his face, a black on black outline. “I won’t leave,” he tells the mug.

He wants to say he that he can’t leave, that he doesn’t have the choice. If he said those words, I would feel them, sharp, visceral points that would pierce my chest and lodge into my heart. Neither of us has the luxury of that choice. “I’m not prepared to simply take your word for that. Not yet.” I go to him, take his face in my hand and rest my forehead against his. His breath warms my skin. I press my lips against his and he accepts me, opens his mouth and lets me explore him.

 _You said you loved me, you said you’d never leave me. Was that the truth or were you lying to me? Have you always been lying to me, John? I could always identify a liar with total infallibility. Now I’m not so sure._

* * *

In the in-between days, John sleeps by my side. If there’s a case, he stays in his room. He’s a distraction that I can’t allow myself. The door stays secured, his hands stay by his sides. It’s a poor substitute for having him with me again, but necessary. He’s not ready yet, not committed. Time running out and it would never do to allow a slip up like that.

After the struggle the first time, the routine gets easier. He sits on his bed and waits. He allows me to move his legs and lets the smooth leather straps wrap around his thighs and loop around his wrists. He allows me to lower him onto the bed and cover him with the thin duvet. He allows me to press a kiss onto his lips.

I close the door and turn the key, listening to the reassuring click as the latch bolt slides into its recess. I know where he is. I know he’s safe. I know every permutation of what he may be doing in that room and I know that he can’t touch himself. That’s his prize. His prize for returning home to me. A soft moan creeps under the door as I return downstairs.

Now I can carry on with examining the fraud evidence against the Duchess of Cornwall in peace. The key rests on a hook in the kitchen; a trophy, proudly displayed where I can see it from every corner in the room. Sometimes John stares at the key, but I suspect it’s not for the same reasons that I do. It’s a brazen enemy for John; it would be easy enough to steal, to hide, but always visible and instantly detectable. Impervious to attack.

I suspect he has been staring for another reason too.

Today, the key was clean. Too clean. He’s going to try and escape tonight. I’ll let him try. He can escape from his room, escape from his bindings, he can try to disengage the lock on the front door and I’ll let him. Only when he’s outside, standing on the cold pavement with no shoes on and the clothes I gave him on his back, will I stop him. Only then will he truly know that he can’t leave. I will always be one step ahead of him, I will always know what he’s thinking, no passing thought can ever be kept a secret from me. There is nowhere for him to run.

His plan became clear when a bar of soap went missing from under the bathroom sink. It was all the proof I needed, but for the sake of working out the exact timing, I kept a close eye on the mounting evidence at hand.

Two pens went missing the following day. The key has been cleaned and there was the faintest smell of plastic when I returned home from the Yard.

He’s used to key to make an impression, pressed the key into the soap to copy its markings. He’s melted the outer casing of the pen into the soap. It wouldn’t have taken two biros to construct a key, so presumably he conducted a test to check the melting point of the plastic in conjunction with the soap. He’s being methodical. Good. His plan is somewhat flawed in its execution but with hints of brilliance in its planning.

Tonight, he’ll make his attempt. He’ll listen to see if the case lures me outside, then try to leave. And I’ll let him think that he can.

* * *

At 4am, I decide to test my theory. I’ve made no attempt to be quiet this evening, making enough noise that he can easily track my movements. I put on my coat and run down the stairs, heels hard on the steps, sounding up the stairwell. I open the front door and slam it closed again. I sit in the dark and wait.

It’s eighteen minutes later when the first noise begins upstairs; the distant shuffling of stifled movement and the slight creak of old floorboards. There’s the almost inaudible creak of plastic grinding against the lock mechanisms. The sounds describes the scene as clearly as if I were standing watching over him. My insides quiver in anticipation of the impending confrontation. I’m not sure if I can wait, every muscle twitches in readiness.

He’s in the kitchen. There’s a pause for a moment as he considers ways of freeing himself from his bindings, followed by the sharp crash of breaking glass. Abruptly, the dynamic of the evening shifts. John has disrupted the natural course of events. He was going to leave, I was going to prevent him from doing so. Things would carry on as they were. Now he’s lashing out and endangering weeks of delicate experimentation in a petty act of spite. I can’t allow that to happen; I take the stairs in triplicate.

I’m halfway across the kitchen when I realise that I’m wrong.

John stands in the doorway between the lounge and kitchen. He has a tea towel wrapped around one hand, cushioning a large shard of glass from one of the panels in the separating door. His knuckles are bloody from breaking the pane, the skin of his wrists split where the glass has slid away from the smooth material and pierced him. As I’m taking in the scene, the last strap of the leather splits free of his wrist.

Of course, the sound of 2mm glass shattering is totally different to 4mm. Distraction is poisonous to logic.

He fixes me with his gaze and there’s a fire in his eyes that I haven’t seen in months. He’s there, the John Watson that I’ve been trying to find, the John Watson that has been AWOL for all these months has come home.

He has never looked more breathtaking.

He has an arm around my shoulders, I can feel the heat of his blood pulsing onto my neck where the glass has cut his skin. The contact is fierce and desperate, his body pushes against mine for a moment before the arm on my neck tenses and yanks downwards hard against my spine. I bow into him for a second, my face brushes his hair. I can’t see his eyes anymore.

The pain is sudden and intense.

My body jerks in one graceless heave and he pulls away from me, his hand still gripping the long shard of glass that is submerged between my third and fourth ribs. The pain pierces inwards as the blood pours out; a like for like exchange. He doesn’t pull away and my blood throbs over his hand, mixing with his own and pooling in the slashes and scraps covering his wrists. Pain sparks outwards into every corner of my body. Everything is slow now.

I should be angry, but I’m so proud. John, my John. Triumph over adversity. It was a battle of wills I never imagined for a moment I would lose. In these seconds that stretch out like hours, I am sure that I have never loved him more.

Though if I can’t have him, no one can.

He pulls out the glass and my blood flows freely from the wound. His arm is drenched, almost black as he takes half a step back. He’s detached from me, yet I still cover him, I’m still marking him. His cuts are letting me into his veins. I’ll move through his arteries, I’ll feed his muscles, I’ll fill chambers of his heart. I know it won’t last forever (the life span of a blood cell is rarely longer than 120 days) but I’ll be a part of him.

John watches. The doctor has gone and the soldier stands before me, surveying his battlefield. He’s watching me, his eyes still fierce and unrelenting. I want to speak, I want to tell him how proud of him I am, how beautiful he looks covered in my blood and how much I love him, but pain drowns out the words. My left lung is filling with fluid, heavy in my chest, my ribs taut, impossibly tight around me.

John watches.

I know he’ll keep watching me, taking in every detail. He’ll sit and watch me for hours, maybe days. He’ll watch the last breath pass over my lips. He’ll watch my skin grown pale and cold. He’ll watch my limbs stiffen and turn rigid.

He’ll stay with me.

He’s won.


	3. Epilogue

`07:37 16th September - 20mg Zaponex (intravenous).   
Subject sits on the corner of the bed. No interest shown in food. Remains resistant to medication and treatment.`

Great care and effort had been expended in selecting Doctor Watson as companion to my brother. The initial research was flawless. It would have been impossible to predict the eventual outcome given the data at hand. Of course, there had been a few indicators (a military disciplinary hearing here, a teenage fracas with the police there) but they could only be interpreted as such after the event. He needed to have uneasy foundations, Sherlock never would have accepted him otherwise. One of the earlier offerings, before refining the specific requirements, had been perfect on paper; physically strong, morally sound, naturally subservient. It had only taken Sherlock a matter of days to dispatch of him. But that was before. Early on, I was young and foolish. I tried to give Sherlock what he wanted, before realising what he needed.

 

`16:15 25th October - 35mg Zaponex (intravenous), 20mg Diazepam (oral)  
Subject using his finger to trace words onto the wall. Suspected to be writing words (pending detailed video analysis transcriptions). Subject immobile for 5 hours. Chooses to sit on floor. Intermittently hostile to staff. Dosages to be reviewed.`

The process had been refined but it would be naive to assume it had finally been brought to a fully-satisfactory conclusion. I am somewhat loathe to admit to the possibility that the problem lies with Sherlock himself. Regardless, he is the one factor that must be accommodated; the constant in this equation. I had hoped he would learn this time. Sherlock had seemed almost remorseful when the previous assistant fled, but clearly the lesson held no permanence for him. I believe it’s fair to say there may have been errors on both our parts.

 

`03:37 23rd December - 30mg Zaponex (intravenous), 10mg Diazepam (oral), 40mg Chlorpromazine (intravenous)  
Subject continues to maintain daily record of thoughts upon the wall. Writing materials no longer requested. Persistently fails to form relationships with staff. Deep seated trust issues.`

The vague insinuation of terrorist activity really does give one a refreshing carte blanche. The insinuation itself is simple--a little time spent in Taliban-controlled areas of Afghanistan can be painted to suit these purposes quite well, even if said time was spent while under the auspices of queen and country-- and the resultant lack of formal trial yields an equal lack in follow-up paperwork. Sentences can be both flexible and indefinite, which seems fitting under the circumstances.

I must admit that things would be undeniably easier now. Sherlock had his uses but, my, destruction so loved to follow in his wake. Governmental appeasement can only be sought so many times without raising eyebrows in the gentleman's club. He was an amusing distraction though. Reliable in his unreliability. His passing will not go unnoticed, his presence in the city missed.

I’d surely miss him myself, if I had the time.

I wonder about this as I watch the daily feed from Doctor Watson’s cell. Impossible to tell from the angle of the camera and his closed-off expression whether _he_ misses my brother, with all the time in the world on his hands to do so.

A curious question to pose to a man in his position, and one with no right answer. I wonder which I would prefer, and what it would mean for his future.

Someday I may ask him myself.


End file.
